Richa Kaul Padte suffered from unexplained, debilitating chronic illness including fatigue and dizziness for three years until an orofacial surgeon and pain management specialist discovered that Padte’s severely dislocated jaw was behind her medical problems. For Hazlitt, Padte relates seeing a myriad of medical professionals to no avail and the unusually close doctor-patient relationship she developed with the one person who had offered her some relief.
Over the years, I have often wondered why I so urgently want to be my doctors’ favourite. The most obvious reason is that if doctors like me, they’ll treat me better. There is an undeniable truth to this: doctors’ biases and prejudices often show up in differential treatment. Even if I tell myself it isn’t true for my doctors, surely at some level I know it could be.
At first, my leading theory was that I’m an A+ student, in this as everything else. My doctors give me balance exercises, so I do them religiously. They propose a gluten-free diet, and I ferry beetroot pasta from Bombay to Goa. When there’s homework, I look for extra credit. But if I’ve substituted doctors for teachers, the conjecture falls apart. I was never invested in being the teacher’s pet. I always wanted to be at the top of the class—not the favourite so much as the best.
My partner’s theory is that I have Stockholm syndrome, doctors edition. I’m trapped in their world, and instead of resenting and mistrusting them, I’ve become obsessed with them. There’s some truth to this, too: if I weren’t perpetually stuck in their clinics, in their waiting rooms, at their mercy, I would be free. Instead of freedom, I’ve found love. It helps that like true kidnappers, they keep me oriented toward a hopeful future where—if I follow all their rules—I may one day be liberated.
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